


Chief

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bearded Sam Winchester, Bratting, Dom Sam Winchester, Dom/sub, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Flogging, Impact Play, Punishment, Spanking, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: “Stop that,” he hisses, sharp and venomous, and fuck, that voice does things to you. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw.“Whatever you say, Chief,” you whisper, smiling.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

You watch from the library door for a moment before you make your presence known. Sam’s on the phone with one of the Apocalypse World hunters, and even though his back is to you, you know the face he’s making right now: brow furrowed, mouth a thin unhappy line under the scruff you’ve become so fond of, as he flips through yet another book and tries to solve yet another problem. It’s been over an hour since he said he would come to bed. 

He finally hangs up and lets out a long, frustrated sigh, running his hands through his hair. 

“Sam?” you call softly. He turns in his chair. 

“I thought you were going to sleep,” he says. His eyes flick over your outfit: worn-to-shreds tank top, so thin it’s translucent, and the stretchy short-shorts he loves to see you in. 

“Missed you, though.” 

“I’ll be done soon,” he says, with a strained smile. His eyes aren’t really focused on you; he’s looking through you, still mentally lost in the book. 

“I don’t believe you,” you counter. 

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I just need to finish up. Go to bed, baby.” 

“Is that an order, Chief?” you say mockingly. 

“Don’t.” 

You just tilt up your chin, raise an eyebrow at him. 

He raises an eyebrow right back and says, firmly, “Come here.” 

You perch on the edge of the table, right in front of him, blocking his view of his book. 

“All work and no play makes Sam a dull boy,” you sing-song, and you can see his jaw clench in exasperation. 

“I need to -” he starts, but you cut him off. 

“I need _you_ , Sam.” You lean forward, and his gaze drops down to your chest, where your nipples are hard and showing clearly through the thin fabric. 

“Don’t you have toys for that?” 

You bat your eyelashes. “Not the same. You know you’re the only one who can _really_ take care of me.” 

He’s trying to keep up the stern facade, but he’s smirking. He licks his lips. You fight the urge to tackle him onto the nearest flat surface. 

“Don’t worry, princess,” he says, low and promising. “I’m going to take good care of you… as soon as I’m done here.” 

“Sam…” you whine. 

“Baby? _Go_ _to bed_.” 

There’s a hint of steel in his voice, and his eyes are really focused on you now, hot and intent. And yeah, the goal here is to get Sam in bed, relaxed, and asleep, as soon as fucking possible, but you’re not exactly dreading what “relaxation” entails, with him. If he’s already strung tight enough to use _that_ voice, it’s going to be a fun night. 

You learned a long time ago that Sam won’t take care of himself, when he’s working, but if it’s a matter of taking care of you? He gets off on it, hard, in ways you’re not ashamed to exploit when you need to.

You give him an exaggerated pout. “Can’t I just stay here and keep you company?” 

“After the kitchen incident last week? Not a fucking chance.” 

You grin. “Mmmm. Yeah, that was fun.” 

His phone rings before he can answer. He shoots you a warning look. 

“This is Sam,” he says tersely, into the phone.

While he’s listening to the response, you slide off the edge of the table and sidle forward, standing right in front of him, between his legs. He holds up a finger, telling you to hang on, and you grab his hand in both of yours, guiding his outstretched finger to your mouth. You give it a lick, swirling your tongue over the tip. Sam glares and you giggle, sliding down and sucking hard before he yanks his hand away and starts playing with his hair instead. He’s refusing to look at you, staring up at the ceiling instead as he tries to focus on his conversation. 

You slide forward and straddle him, settling into his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. Sam grits his teeth and makes a _cut it out_ sort of gesture. You smile innocently and rock your hips, slightly, just enough to feel the way he’s starting to get hard. 

You shift forward, draping yourself over his chest, and go straight for the sensitive spot under his ear. It’s Sam’s kryptonite. You can feel the way his hips jerk up when you give it a nip, but before you can really sink your teeth in and start teasing, he grabs you by the hair and tugs, pulling your head back; the jolt of pain makes you hiss and squirm, struggling against his grip, feeling the sting in your scalp as it pulses in time with the low throb of arousal between your legs. 

“‘Scuse me for a second, Maggie?” Sam says. He’s controlling his voice, keeping it even, and you’re pretty sure nobody else would be able to hear the icy undercurrent in the words. He holds the phone away from his mouth. 

“C’mon, is that all you got?” you breathe, arching into his grip, wriggling your hips and grinding against his cock. His eyes flash dangerously. 

“Stop that,” he hisses, sharp and venomous, and _fuck_ , that voice does things to you. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

“Whatever you say, Chief,” you whisper, smiling. 

He tugs on your hair again, hard, lip curling into a snarl, and you can’t help the little whimper that escapes your mouth. You can feel the way his cock twitches, hard and hot through his jeans. 

Sam holds the phone to his ear again, scowling. “Sorry, where was I?” 

You give him a second to talk. Then you run one hand down his chest and abs, feeling the muscles flex under his shirt. He’s watching you warily, and you hold eye contact as you run your fingers up your own thigh and under the waistband of your shorts. His grip tightens in your hair, but he doesn’t make any real move to stop you. You let out a low sigh of pleasure as your fingers circle your clit. 

Sam shakes his head, teeth bared, grimacing in a way you’re all too familiar with; it means he’s furious, he’s barely controlling himself… it means that you are in for one _hell_ of a good time as soon as his hands are free. You shudder at the thought, heat lancing through your core. 

“Okay, Maggie, thanks for the update,” Sam says. A thrill of anticipation runs up your spine. “Check in tomorrow? Thanks. You too.” 

He hangs up. You hear the phone hit the floor. You work your fingers faster on your clit, panting, watching the way Sam’s eyes narrow, the way his neck moves as he swallows and tilts his head, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel hot all over. 

“ _Behave_ ,” he snaps. 

You lift your chin defiantly. “Make me.” 

Sam finally lets go of your hair. He catches your wrist instead, tugging your hand out of your shorts, and his other hand grabs your ass, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise. He grinds up, using his grip as leverage to pull you down against him, angle perfect to drag rough friction up the soaked-through center seam of your shorts, and your eyes roll back in your head at the sparking too-good feeling of it. You moan, loud and shameless. 

Before you can blink, Sam’s on his feet, taking you with him, and then you’re sprawling back on the table, all the air knocked out of your lungs. 

You gasp, trying to catch your breath. Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, and he’s still got one big hand curled around your wrist, pinning it down to the table. It all happened so fast your brain is having trouble keeping up. 

“You think it’s fun, teasing me like that?” he growls. You almost say _yes_ , but the word dies in your throat as you look at him. He’s looming over you, chest heaving, eyes smoldering, a tendon straining in his neck. 

Sometimes, Sam is so sweet that it’s easy to forget who he is and what he does. It’s easy to forget that this is a man who scares monsters and demons and angels alike. 

Now, though? When he’s like this, wild and ferocious, he’s _terrifying_. He looks like nothing so much as an apex predator, and you feel like prey. You’re aching with how wet you are, clenching around nothing, squirming with how much you need him, but the primal survival instinct in the back of your brain is screaming at you to _run_. 

You don’t run. You stare up at him, dazed, and try to breathe through the dizzying mix of fear and lust that’s making your blood run hot with adrenaline. 

“I asked you a question,” Sam says, hoarse. 

You shake your head slowly. “No. I’m sorry.” 

Sam’s lips curl up in a smile. “Don’t lie to me.” 

Before you can answer, he’s bending forward, pulling you up, and somehow he throws you over his shoulder like it’s nothing. He stands, and your head spins at how far away the floor is, suddenly, and how strange it feels to be upside down and out of control. You couldn’t move if you wanted to. You go limp and let him carry you. 

“You’re not sorry,” he says calmly, taking long strides toward the door. “But you will be.” 


	2. Part 2

Sam drops you unceremoniously as soon as the door slams shut. You stumble, dizzy, discombobulated after being carried like that. You lean against the wall for a moment, watching Sam as he shrugs off his flannel and kicks off his shoes. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and beckons you over. You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms stubbornly. 

“If you come put yourself over my lap, right fucking now, it’ll be twenty with my hand,” he says, voice low and steely. “If you keep up the attitude and make me pin you, it’ll be my belt. Your choice, princess.” 

You shiver. Last time he used his belt, you couldn’t sit comfortably for days, afterward. Granted, it was some of the most spectacular sex of your life, but… you’re not sure you’re ready for that right now. It takes a particularly self-destructive sort of mood for you to push Sam _that_ hard. 

You swallow and bow your head meekly, walking over to him without any more argument. 

“Good girl,” he says approvingly. 

You bend yourself over his legs, and he tugs until you’re right where he wants you, ass up for easy access. 

“Shorts down,” he says. You flush a little and reach back, wriggling and struggling to pull your tiny shorts off in the awkward, humiliating position. You shimmy them down your thighs and Sam tugs them the rest of the way so you can kick them off. 

Sam runs a hand up the back of your thigh and cups your ass. He grips soft flesh, squeezing roughly, and you whimper. He drags his fingers down, sliding them between your legs, running between your lips to feel the slippery-wet heat there. You whine and squirm, trying to arch your back and push against his incredible fingers even though he has you trapped in place.

“Are you going to behave?” he asks quietly. “Or do I need to use my belt after all?” 

“I’ll be good,” you whisper. 

He steadies you with his left palm flat between your shoulderblades, holding you down, while he raises his right hand. 

“Count for me,” he orders. Goosebumps run down your neck. You hear the hard crack of his hand hitting your ass. The pain follows a split-second later. 

“One,” you say, voice shaking, and in rapid succession, counting off alternating hits on your bare ass cheeks, “Two. Three.” 

This is always the part where you think maybe you’re getting used to it, how hard he can hit, how much it stings… it hurts, sure, but it’s manageable, and you wonder if you’ve been building the pain up in your mind, exaggerating it in your memory. 

Then four and five land on already-smarting skin. When you count them out, your voice has a pitiful whining edge to it. 

“Louder,” Sam orders. His palm comes down harder, connecting with a slap that makes you twitch and groan. 

“Six,” you grunt, tears starting to prick your eyes. He’s pausing after every hit, giving you just enough time to really feel the throbbing pain and then anticipate the next blow. Your heart is hammering in your chest. 

His hand connects with your upper thighs, this time, the sensitive skin just under the curve of your ass, and you yelp, flinching away from the bright flash of pain. 

“Seven,” you groan, and immediately after, in the same spot, “Eight.” 

Nine and ten are even harder. 

Your skin feels raw and hot. Adrenaline is starting to flood your body and buzz under your skin, making it easier; everything is starting to feel a little fuzzy, a little distant, with the chemical rush. Still, Sam’s fucking strong. He hits hard. There isn’t enough adrenaline in the world to block out the way your nerve endings are screaming. 

He pauses for a moment, caressing your overheated skin gently. You try to catch your breath. 

“Ten more,” Sam warns. “Can you take it?” 

“Yes,” you whimper, blinking back tears. 

Sam’s hand nudges your legs further apart, and he brushes a knuckle over your clit. The feather-light touch feels like an electric shock. You struggle and squirm, and he presses down on your back, holding you still. 

“You’re gonna have some serious bruises,” Sam murmurs, and you shudder, heat curling up your belly. 

The next slap is vicious. You let out a high-pitched, broken, needy moan, and when you say, “Eleven,” it’s more of a sob than a real word. 

Twelve and thirteen land, one after the other, on glowing-hot skin. There are tears rolling down your face, now, mixing with the salt of sweat. You feel feverish and strung-out, soaring high on the wild cocktail of chemicals rushing through your blood. 

“F-f-fourteen,” you stammer, dizzy. “Fifteen. _Fuck_ , Sam, _fuck_ , _hurts_.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, and you shiver at the dark smirk in his voice. “You can take a break. You can come. But then for the last five, I use whatever I want. How does that sound?” 

A long, uneven whine tears through your throat. You run through the possibilities: paddle, flogger, riding crop. He could use his belt after all, if he’s feeling particularly vicious. Your skin feels hyper-sensitive already, inflamed and aching, and the thought of one of the leather whips on top of that makes your stomach lurch. 

Then Sam slips two fingers into you without warning. You’re so slick, opening up so easily around his thick knuckles, and you feel the stretch like a coil of heat that writhes through your entire body, down to your toes. 

“Yes,” you gasp, desperate for more. “Yes, please, pleasepleaseplease -” 

He twists his fingers and gets his thumb on your clit, rubbing slow circles. You choke out a curse. He keeps the pace slow, the friction steady, and for a moment you’re frantic, wanting more. Then his thumb curls down and around with a little more pressure, and you’re crying out, rocking your hips down helplessly, already close to the edge. The pain is amplifying the pleasure, the sting in your skin and pulsing need in your cunt blurring together in one overwhelming sensation that’s sending fire lancing through your core. 

“Good girl,” Sam croons. “Right there?” 

He speeds up ever so slightly, and you bite down on your own arm to stifle a scream as your body goes tense and expectant, pressure building until it finally explodes. The first wave of it is blinding, making you shake violently under Sam’s hands, and if he wasn’t holding you down, you’d fall to the floor. Instead you just strain wildly against the weight of his palm as your orgasm rocks through you in searing electric waves. 

You’re sobbing with relief when you start to come down, breath catching on a shuddery moan with every exhale. Sam’s fingers are still working gently, rubbing you through the aftershocks, dragging out the last ripples of pleasure until you almost forget what’s next. 

“Still with me?” he murmurs, and you groan. “That’s my girl. C’mon, now, doing so good. Breathe.” 

You take a deep gulp of oxygen, feeling hot all over, dizzy and blissed-out. The last traces of tension bleed from your body. It’s like you’re floating, wrung-out and boneless, and Sam’s hands are the only thing tethering you to Earth. 

Sam gets one hand under your chest, the other around your waist, and maneuvers you with a roll and a tug until you’re sitting in his lap, curled limply against his chest and wrapped in his strong arms. You sigh, nuzzling against his collarbone. 

You’re dimly aware of Sam stroking your hair and pulling back so that he can look at you, checking that you’re really okay. 

“Learned my lesson,” you mumble, wiping a tear from your cheek with the back of one hand as you smile up at him. “Promise.” 

“Not getting out of this that easily,” he says sternly. He hefts you off his lap and onto the bed. “Shirt off. Facing the headboard, on all fours.” 

You scramble to obey. 

The cool air on your raw, overheated skin is just a reminder of who you belong to. You close your eyes and breathe, arching your back and spreading your legs for him, and you wait, feeling safe and calm. This is Sam, after all. He wouldn’t dole out a punishment you couldn’t take. 

“Ready, princess?” he asks. 

You take one more shaky breath. “Ready.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me a year to write the final part of this! Wow.

You can hear the scrape of the toy chest that you keep under the bed; Sam isn’t going for his belt, at least. Still, your ass is hot and stinging, throbbing even through the hazy high of postcoital bliss, and anything will feel intense on the inflamed skin right now. For a moment you just wait, listening as Sam rummages. Then you hear a familiar swishing sound. It’s the gentlest thing Sam could use, the deerhide flogger whose tails are buttery-soft and supple. You sigh with relief, practically giddy. 

There’s more rustling, the clink of Sam’s belt, the soft sound of his clothes falling to the floor. Then you can feel the mattress sink under his weight, and you hear his deep, steady breaths behind you. 

He traces up your center, one long finger curling into you. Your clit is still too sensitive from your last orgasm, but the pressure on your g-spot is incredible. You hum happily, rocking back, and he slips a second finger in, teasing, playing with you. 

Sam fucks you almost lazily with his fingers, slow and steady, a hypnotic sensation that almost makes you forget what’s coming; there’s a whole new wave of pleasure starting to build inside you. You arch your back, trying to spread your legs a little wider. 

“So pretty, all wet and ready for me,” he says quietly. “Five more. Got it?” 

His fingers curl in deep, one last time, and then they’re gone, and you whimper at the loss. Sam shifts, and you brace yourself. 

“Ready,” you tell him. 

Instead of the flogger, though, you feel something cool at your entrance: silicone. Sam slides the vibrator in quickly, and before you know it, he has it buzzing, low and gentle and teasing. The toy rubs against your g-spot just right, igniting something deep in your belly. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, gasping. 

You’re still trying to process the stimulation of the vibrator, and the swish of the flogger takes you by surprise. The impact that follows, gentle as it is, makes you cry out. 

“One,” you say shakily. Sam turns the toy up a notch higher, and you whine, biting back a curse. You could almost come from this, but you know Sam won’t let you, not yet at least. 

The second impact is just a shade harder, and you choke out, “Two.” As soon as the word escapes your lips, Sam turns the vibrator up. 

So… _this_ is his game. 

You whimper low in your throat, waiting for the next hit from the flogger, but instead, Sam plays with the toy, sliding it in deeper, thrusting it right against the spot that makes you feel like you might explode with the perfect swell of pressure. 

You’re so tense and ready for the hit that you shout it before you have a chance to process the pain: “Three.”

You grit your teeth, bracing yourself, prepared for the increased intensity this time, but the coil of tension still makes fireworks explode behind your eyelids. You can feel all that heat building, rising in your core, steady and inevitable. 

Sam puts some muscle into the fourth hit, and it’s enough to make the deerhide tails feel vicious on your skin. You sob out a quiet, “Four.”

“Almost there,” Sam says, husky and heated. When he turns the vibrator up another notch, your vision flashes white. 

One last flare of sweet-sharp pain, and you groan, “Five.” 

“Good girl,” Sam growls, and he turns the vibrator up again. It’s fucking unbearable. You can feel the pressure everywhere, filling you up until you’re afraid you’ll burst from it. You twist your fingers in the sheets, clutching at the fabric desperately as if you can physically hold yourself back.

“Sam, I can’t, I _can’t_ wait, I can’t, _please_ ,” you babble. “Please, Sam, I need to come _right fucking now_.” 

Then Sam pulls the vibrator out with an obscene slick sound, and before you can suck in a breath to beg again, he has the hot velvety head of his cock pressed to your entrance, and he thrusts in with one long smooth movement, thick and hard and gut-wrenchingly good. 

“Do it,” he gasps, and he sounds almost as wrecked as you feel as he twists his hips, grinding in deep, shoving right up against that same spot with a force that makes your arms give out. You half-collapse onto your elbows, and the next sweet rolling thrust hits with even more sparking friction. 

“Ohgod _there_ ,” you hiss, writhing under him, trying to get him deeper, so close you feel frantic with need. 

“I’ve got you,” he says roughly. “Let go, I’ve got you.” 

You let out an ugly, animalistic noise, half sob and half scream. Something surges up inside you, all the way up from the tips of your toes. You’ve only squirted once before but you recognize that feeling in the split-second before the pressure in your belly hits a breaking point; then it starts quaking out from your core, and you’re dimly aware of the first wet rush of it soaking the sheets. Sam groans, rough and ragged, hips snapping forward wildly. Then your orgasm peaks, ripping through you, and everything goes dark and distant. 

It feels like you black out for a minute, maybe two, but you can’t really keep track of time. You’re just floating, utterly limp and wrung-out… but you can hear Sam’s voice saying your name, and you gradually become aware of your body again. Opening your eyes is like trying to swim to the surface from very deep underwater. 

Sam is half on top of you, and his weight is grounding and comforting even though you’re in danger of overheating. You’re both collapsed forward, on your stomachs, all tangled together, and you can feel the way his breath hitches in his chest as he croons your name again. He shifts, and you mumble a protest. 

“Still with me?” he whispers. He nuzzles into the side of your neck and then kisses your temple, smoothing your sweaty hair back from your forehead.

“Mmph,” you say, articulate as ever. 

“Be right back,” he promises. He pulls out and moves away, and then you let out a disgruntled sound, realizing that you’re lying in one hell of a wet spot. You muster all your energy to wriggle six inches to one side. 

Sam turns the sink on for a moment, and you turn your head to watch him, admiring the muscles in his back as he stands there. He comes back with the washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other. 

“So smart,” you mumble. 

He cleans you up so gently it takes your breath away, handling you like he’s afraid you’ll break. When you’re both clean (or at least slightly less gross) he slides into bed, and you roll right over the towel to settle on top of him, cheek to his chest, listening contentedly to his heartbeat as it slows. He runs a hand carefully down your back and brushes his palm over your ass, grazing heated skin that’s aching dully with the promise of tomorrow’s bruises. 

“There’s that lotion,” he murmurs. “The arnica stuff. Let me –” 

“Nope,” you insist, clinging to him. “Not moving.” 

You feel the low rumble of his laugh under your cheek, and then his chest rises and falls as he sighs. 

“Just want to take care of you,” he whispers, stroking your hair again. You lift your head until you can smile at him, feeling dazed and punch-drunk, high on the afterglow and the way you feel about him. 

“You always take such good care of me,” you say quietly, wishing there were stronger words for this feeling in your ribcage; for now, though, all you can say is, “I love you, Sam.”

He smiles like he’s melting, soft and sweet and tender. His eyes are already half-closed, long lashes fluttering. You don’t want to know how long it’s been since he got a full night of sleep. 

“Love you more,” he mumbles. He reaches out blindly for the lamp and fumbles with the switch, and you’re pretty sure he’s asleep the second darkness falls. 

Tomorrow, there will be hunters to train, strategy meetings and research sessions and chaos. Tomorrow, Sam will be alert and laser-focused and commanding, giving out orders, making plans. Tomorrow, he shoulders the weight of being “Chief” again. For now, though, he’s all yours. 

You smile to yourself, listening to his breathing go deep and steady, trying to memorize the way his skin feels, the way his body fits against yours. You don’t get enough moments like this, quiet and still, just the two of you; you’re going to appreciate it while you can. 


End file.
